When we think of our bogwood rings, they bring to mind mizzle (mist + drizzle, a real and wonderful word) and mystery: a tree fallen into a peat bog and grown-over centuries ago, not petrified nor decayed, a sort of immortal thing, just beginning to be a fossil.
As one of us said today: it's easy to write a romantic blog post about bogwood, because bogwood is so romantic!
Indeed, what more do we want of our love than to hold it close, and feel it everlasting?
Often in Ireland, bogwood logs -- once of oak or pine, yew or cypress -- are dredged from their wet climes and placed into piled cairns, meant to mark a trail. Or else a canny harvester looks for the last-left frost across the peat: wherever there is still frost, bogwood can be found below.
Being such "new" people in the presence of such an old material makes us feel quite pleasantly agog. To wear such a ring unites us with the earth and everything.
The bogwood rings, too, make us misty eyed, and remember the specialness of life, where we are coming from and where we are going, as Italo Calvino writes in Invisible Cities:
"The city...does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of the streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps, the antennae of the lightning rods, the poles of the flags, every segment marked in turn with scratches, indentations, scrolls."
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| our "Young at Heart - Yang" ring |
As one of us said today: it's easy to write a romantic blog post about bogwood, because bogwood is so romantic!
Indeed, what more do we want of our love than to hold it close, and feel it everlasting?
Often in Ireland, bogwood logs -- once of oak or pine, yew or cypress -- are dredged from their wet climes and placed into piled cairns, meant to mark a trail. Or else a canny harvester looks for the last-left frost across the peat: wherever there is still frost, bogwood can be found below.
Being such "new" people in the presence of such an old material makes us feel quite pleasantly agog. To wear such a ring unites us with the earth and everything.
The bogwood rings, too, make us misty eyed, and remember the specialness of life, where we are coming from and where we are going, as Italo Calvino writes in Invisible Cities:
"The city...does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of the streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps, the antennae of the lightning rods, the poles of the flags, every segment marked in turn with scratches, indentations, scrolls."
